The Coffee Story

Day 364: Somehow I got up this morning without having heard that today is National Coffee Day. I am shocked to think that this event might have slipped by without my notice, and I am grateful to the friend who served up the jolt which wakened me to the fact. It certainly merited brewing another pot, even though I usually switch to tea in the afternoon. That said, now I must relate the Coffee Story since it is singularly appropriate to the day.

My friends will vouch for the fact that I will drink almost any coffee, good or bad, regardless of age. I draw the line at coffee with mold floating on the surface, although I have been known to pour it out of a thermos, week-old and room temperature, drinking it down without evincing any sign of distaste. I drink camp coffee, the kind which forces you to filter it between your clenched teeth to reduce the amount of grounds ingested, and it is not uncommon for me to take up the cup I left in the microwave yesterday to be drunk without reheating (or reheated, as the mood strikes me). I like it so strong that you can stand a spoon up in the cup, and I generally make a 12-cup pot and leave it on the counter until it's gone, whether that's in one day or three. You can't waste coffee.

There is, however, one way I will not drink coffee: sweetened. Add sugar, and it becomes a different drink. Cream or milk is okay, but sugar, never. Thus I set myself up to fall into a trap laid by my fishing buddy.

We'd been washing bait for several hours on Swofford Pond, and to have something to keep my hands busy while I waited for a bite, I'd eaten all my snacks and had drunk the last of the coffee I'd brought along. Bored and needing something else to do, I asked Sande if he had any coffee left. I failed to see the twinkle in his eye when he offered it to me, just as surely as I neglected to remember that he sweetens his brew rather lavishly. I took up his thermos and pulled a hearty swig directly from the neck. It hit my tongue with a cloying splash which caused my mouth to rebel with the same vehemence reserved for the aforementioned mold when it takes me by surprise. In other words, I spat and gagged, and when I regained my voice, I swore prodigiously.

Sande, with the demeanor he always reserved for people who fell for a prank said, calmly, "I thought you said you wanted some coffee." He'd known full well what my reaction was going to be.

"I did," I replied with as much equanimity as I could muster. "I wanted joe, but dammit, you gave me joanne!"